The Problem With Alice

I looked down at my feet, a pair of ordinary boots straddling two worlds—one of comfort and luxury with teacups and quilts and controlled, subdued fires; and one of mystery and intrigue that looked both familiar and strange all at the same time.  And I knew I had to choose between two sides of the looking glass. 

Or did I?

In all actuality, I felt perfectly content where I was.  To the left sat my large, striped chair with its dip in the seat, contoured to my comfort.  To my right were flowers that were so magnified and bustling with life they looked less like plants and more like beasts.  The view was more than anyone could ask for—home and adventure all at the same time.  And it seemed final at that moment; I would live there.  Forever.  I would make my home in the in-between.

I wanted to run to my room and grab a couple pillows to situate myself and then see how far I could see to my right, but as I lifted my foot and felt the weight shift I was struck by the realization that I would have to leave my post.  In order to accomplish anything I would have to submerge myself completely into one world and shed myself of the other.  To grab a book I’d have to go home; to explore the garden I’d have to run through it.  And if I jumped in, either way, I’d go without the assurance of knowing if I could ever return.